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  A hush fell on the crowded bar when the model pushed open the door and she felt all eyes on her as she stepped up to the counter, conscious of most of the gazes studying her legs and wishing she had put on a much longer skirt than she was now wearing. The snake-eyed bartender even bent over the counter for a closer look as she approached, but under her contemptuous stare, he gave an insipid grin and studied her face instead.

  ‘You’ve got it, chaps,’ she drawled, tapping one thigh. ‘My pins go right up to my arse, okay?’

  A faint titter of amusement rippled through the other customers and Snake-eyes coughed his embarrassment. ‘What would you be wantin’, Miss?’ he queried. ‘Drink, is it? We does good food ’ere too.’

  ‘You should already have me booked in,’ she replied. ‘Name’s Denise Cross. She nodded towards the same corner table, which unbeknown to her, Freddie Baxter and Vernon Wiles had taken the afternoon they had arrived. ‘A glass of red wine and something to eat first, though. Then I’ll see the room.’

  Snake-eyes raised an eyebrow. ‘No problem,’ he said, reaching behind him to remove a key from the board on the wall by the optics, adding, ‘Driven far today?’

  ‘From London,’ she replied, taking the key from him.

  ‘Lon’on, eh?’ he said and raised both eyebrows this time. ‘Lots of folk comin’ down ’ere from Lon’on lately.’

  Dubois looked surprised. ‘You have others staying?’

  ‘Only one now,’ he replied. ‘Used to be two of ’em. Come down together, they did. Then one feller went and fell off a cliff.’

  She knew he was referring to Freddie Baxter, but didn’t seek clarification. ‘That’s awful,’ she said. ‘And the other one?’

  ‘Still ’ere,’ he said, pouring her a glass of wine and nodding towards the beamed ceiling. ‘Got Coverack, my best room, too, else you could’ve ’ad it.’

  ‘That’s a pity.’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah, well, ’e decided to stay on till after the post mortem. Says ’e owes it to the feller what died. Friend of ’is apparently.’

  ‘What a lovely thing to do.’

  Snake-eyes shook his head slowly. ‘Maybe, but ’e was all set to go. Then ’e gets a visit from the police and changes ’is mind.’ He leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. ‘Rarely leaves ’is room, you know – ’as all ’is meals sent up and left outside the door. Funny business, that. Like ’e knows more’n ’e’s tellin’, if you catch my drift.’

  Oh, I catch your drift all right, she thought grimly, guessing that the man in question had to be Vernon Wiles. But she made no comment.

  ‘You visitin’ ’ereabouts then?’ Snake-eyes went on, ‘or just passin’ through?’

  Dubois took a sip of her wine and studied him thoughtfully for a moment. Obviously not much of what went on locally escaped the inquisitive barman, so odds on, he could fill her in on little old Lynn Giles. It was worth a try and updates were always handy.

  ‘Calling in on an old school-friend actually,’ she said after a pause. ‘Lynn … er … Mary Tresco. You know her?’

  He nodded. ‘Lives out at Bootleg Cove,’ he said. ‘Not been ’ere long. Don’t mix with local folk. Strange wench, I reckons.’ He grinned. ‘You’ll be lucky to catch ’er at ’ome, though.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ she asked casually, taking another sip of her drink.’

  He leaned across the counter again. ‘Got took up with another Emmett,’ he replied. ‘Writer feller livin’ up at The Old Customs ’Ouse on the ’eadland.’ He gave an extravagant wink. ‘Be all accounts, shares ’is bed sometimes too.’

  ‘Good for her,’ she retorted sharply. ‘Maybe he’ll be able to find a friend for me.’

  Then smirking at the shocked expression on the barman’s face, she picked up her glass of wine and a menu from the counter and headed over to her table.

  She ordered 20 minutes later – impressed when her lasagne and salad arrived within a quarter of an hour, but not so impressed when her fork discovered the soft squidgy filling. Grimacing, but very hungry, she forced the meal down nevertheless and ordered another couple of large red wines to wash away the greasy cheese taste.

  Then sitting back in her seat, she watched the bar gradually fill up with locals until it became so crowded that even the counter was almost hidden from view. Time to go. Collecting her overnight bag from her car outside, she headed for the stairs leading to the upper floor where she guessed the bedrooms would be located.

  The corridor at the top was poorly lit and smelled damp and musty, but the illumination was sufficient for her to find her way and she saw that there were only six rooms anyway. Three on each side, all individually labelled – unbeknown to her – with the names of different Cornish coves. The fob on her key-ring bore the name “Kynance” and she found the corresponding name on the first door to her right. The door was unlocked and moonlight flooded the room through the window opposite, revealing dark wooden furniture and a double bed smothered by a heavily patterned oversized quilt. ‘Great,’ she muttered sarcastically. ‘Home from home.’

  Switching on another ineffective light, she kicked the door shut with her heel and dumped her bag on the bed. From the bar downstairs she could hear raucous laughter and the clink of glasses. Then a car pulled up at the front of the place, rap music blaring out of its speakers, before the driver cut the engine and the noise ceased.

  Crossing to the window, she checked to make sure her own car was still there, then pulling the curtains firmly across, she dropped on to the edge of the bed and sat there thinking for a few moments. More raucous laughter from downstairs and someone dropped a glass with a loud crash. She scowled. It seemed like it was going to be a noisy night.

  Unzipping the bag she had dumped on the bed, she rummaged around inside and produced a small hip-flask. Unscrewing it, still with her face set in a thoughtful frown, she took several mouthfuls of the American rye whisky it contained. The spirit flowed through her like fire, drawing a sharp gasp from her before she resealed the flask and returned it to her bag. But it had been what she’d needed, and with the sleeping tablet she intended taking before turning in, at least it should ensure she got a good night’s sleep. First, though, she had that other little job to do.

  The corridor outside was deserted. She studied it for a moment in the smoky ceiling lights. A sign on the door of the room directly opposite said “Coverack” – Vernon Wiles’ room – and there was a covered plate and clean cutlery wrapped in a napkin on a tray outside, cold to the touch and apparently ignored. She smiled grimly. If the lasagne she had just sampled was anything to go by, it wasn’t surprising that Vernon had lost his appetite. Still, whatever the reason, it was time to find out what, if anything, the little creep might have chosen to keep to himself about Freddie Baxter’s demise? After all, there shouldn’t be any secrets between friends, should there? And she smiled grimly as she knocked on the door.

  CHAPTER 14

  Once again, Lynn Giles couldn’t sleep and she finally got up to another warm, dry day. But after a shower and a leisurely breakfast, the azure ocean beckoned and she decided on a swim to cool off. Conscious of the fact that there might still be police activity on the clifftop by the old engine-house, this time she opted for a black one-piece bathing costume instead of her birthday suit. Not out of any sense of modesty in case some randy copper got an eyeful, but because, thin as the material was, it at least hid most of her unsightly scars.

  Seagulls wheeled noisily overhead and tiny crabs scuttled away from her feet like little old men as she picked her way down the beach to the chuckling surf. It was an idyllic, peaceful scene and it seemed incredible that such a short time before, Freddie Baxter’s corpse had lain broken and bloodied on the rocks at the foot of the cliffs a few hundred yards from where she now stood, ankle deep in the surf.

  Poor old Freddie. What an ignominious end for him. Especially as he’d always hated the sea. Rather ironic really and she gave a bitter smile. Still, she couldn’t honestly
say she was sorry. He had been an absolute arsehole to her since he had plucked her from the sleazy nightclub, where she had been performing as a nude pole-dancer a few years before, and had then threatened her with the release of explicit photographs of her act to the press if she didn’t do exactly as she was told. In her opinion, he had deserved all he’d got and she had no intention of shedding false tears over what had happened.

  Striding into the surf, she threw herself forward when it got to her waist and pulled away from the beach in a confident crawl, heading towards the gap between the two arms of the cove and the open sea, the sun pricking her shoulders and salt stinging her lips with each stroke. She’d had no intention of swimming out of the cove this time. The water seemed a lot more choppy than usual and she knew enough about Cornwall to avoid taking any liberties with the old man of the sea. So, within a few yards of the jagged mouth, as the water became choppier and the current increased its pull on her slender body, she performed an arc and turned back towards the shore. And it was then that she saw the dark figure creeping along the decking at the rear of The Beach House, apparently peering in through the windows. Her burglar was back to turn over the place again, the cheeky sod! Well, this time he had made a big mistake.

  Controlling her inner fury with an effort, she resisted the temptation to increase her speed, maintaining the same long measured strokes she was so used to. An extra push would have created more water disturbance and risked attracting attention. Coupled with which, she wanted to catch her man in the act this time, and not arrive on her doorstep gasping for breath before he’d actually gained entry.

  The shingle bit into the soles of her feet as she emerged from the sea and she went for a direct approach to The Beach House instead of sticking to the patches of soft sand. Ordinarily the sharp jabs would have brought her to a stop with a cry of pain, but she kept going in silence, her teeth gritted with determination and her gaze never leaving the decking. The intruder had disappeared – possibly around the side of the place – and she prayed he hadn’t seen her and already taken to his heels. She needed to at least catch a better glimpse of the bastard after all this.

  The wooden steps were hot on her bare feet, but again she put up with the discomfort, deliberately taking her time climbing up to the patio, creeping rather than walking to the top, then pausing to listen. But all she heard was the murmur of the sea. Even the gulls seemed to be holding their breath.

  She turned left, leaving wet foot-prints on the decking, and paused at the corner of the house to peer along the sideway – and immediately found herself staring into a pair of mocking brown eyes.

  ****

  Detective Chief Inspector Benchley and DI Angel paid a visit to the luxury apartment block Felicity Dubois called home at just after 9am.

  ‘You’ve missed her,’ the security man on the desk said after they had been buzzed into the public foyer and had stated their business.

  ‘How so, Mr … er …?’ Angel encouraged.

  ‘Dolby, Miss. Terry Dolby. She went off somewhere yesterday – for a few days, I reckon. Had a suitcase with her when I picked her up on the CCTV camera going down to the basement car park, and I saw her motor leave a few minutes later.’

  ‘What kind of motor?’

  ‘Maroon Beamer … 7 Series.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you got the registration number?’

  Dolby smirked. ‘Didn’t need to. We keep the regs’ of all the residents motors here.’

  ‘Jot it down for us, would you?’

  Dolby frowned. ‘Dunno ’bout that. Confidential, see. What’s she done?’

  Angel frowned. ‘We can get it soon enough from the DVLC.’

  Dolby thought a moment before nodding and tapping the keys of his computer. Then, tearing off a strip from a small notebook, he wrote the number down and handed it to her.

  ‘No idea where she was going?’ Benchley queried.

  Dolby gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Haven’t the faintest,’ he said.

  The detective treated him to a thin smile. ‘No, I suppose being just the janitor here you wouldn’t get to know much about your residents.’

  Dolby scowled. ‘Oh I know more than you think,’ he said, puffing out his chest and adding, ‘And I ain’t no janitor neither. I’m a security officer.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ Benchley patronised, and turning towards Angel flicked his eyes towards the entrance door and handed her the car keys. ‘Nip back to the car, will you?’ he said. ‘See if there are any messages on the radio for us.’

  The DI cottoned on immediately. Her boss was obviously about to do something naughty and didn’t want to involve her in whatever it was. It wouldn’t be the first time he had done that either, she mused, as she took the keys and headed for the door. His unorthodox approach to police work was almost legendary.

  The security man watched her go and nodded approvingly. ‘Good idea to keep in touch with the old control room,’ he said, puffing out his chest again, plainly oblivious to what was actually going on. ‘I have to do the same, you know.’

  Benchley smiled again. ‘No chance of me popping up to Miss Dubois’ apartment, is there?’ she queried mildly.

  Dolby shook his head. ‘Sorry, ain’t allowed, but I could take a message up for you for when she gets back.’

  Benchley made a face. ‘Not possible, I’m afraid. Police business. Confidential and all that, you know.’

  Dolby nodded and tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. ‘Comprenez-vous,’ he said, reminding Benchley of David Jason in the television series Only Fools and Horses. ‘In the same business, ain’t we?’

  Benchley let the wallet displaying his warrant card flip open in his hand as it rested on the desk, revealing a back pocket stuffed with £10 and £20 notes. ‘Helping the police with their inquiries is part of it all too, isn’t it?’ he said innocently.

  The policeman saw Dolby lick his slack lips and his piggy eyes fastened on the wallet with a greedy intensity, then darted a quick glance around the small room.

  ‘And such public-spirited cooperation is always deserving of recompense, don’t you think?’ Benchley went on, pushing the wallet towards him.

  Dolby threw another glance around the room, then reached forward and deftly removed three £20 notes. He would have made a return trip, but Benchley beat him to it and slipped the wallet back into his coat pocket.

  ‘Number 30, third floor,’ the security man muttered, scanning the foyer for the third time, before turning to unlock what turned out to be a key cabinet beneath the desk. ‘Master key,’ he added, pushing a pamphlet about the premises across the desk towards him with the key inside, ‘and I want it back. You savvy?’

  ‘No problem,’ Benchley murmured, smiling as he carefully picked up the pamphlet, folded it over the key and slipped it into his pocket. ‘But it would be helpful if your security camera was pointing another way while I’m up there, if you follow me?’

  Another scowl. ‘You won’t say I let you in?’

  ‘Absolutely not. I would be in the shit too then, wouldn’t I?’

  That seemed to satisfy the little man and seconds later Benchley was in the lift and heading for the third floor, wondering how the hell he was going to make a case for recovering his bribe from the department’s informant’s fund when he got back.

  Apartment 30 was at the end of a short, thickly carpeted corridor and the security camera had been electronically swivelled to focus in the opposite direction by the time he stepped out of the lift. He knocked a couple of times to ensure the apartment was actually empty, then stared up and down the corridor to make sure he was alone. It was deserted, but maybe not for long. Quickly pulling on a pair of gloves, he slipped the key in the lock, stepped through and closed the door quietly behind him.

  Safely inside, he stopped to listen for a few moments, but there was nothing. The place was as still as his own departmental archives on a Sunday.

  A quick check revealed a beautifully appointed bedroom, a marble
bathroom and a kitchen shimmering with stainless steel. But it was the living room he was interested in and he studied it from the doorway for a second before stepping through.

  In the street below, the muffled drone of traffic only just penetrated the triple glazing and the sharp ping of the lift in the corridor outside froze him for a moment as he waited with pounding heart for the sound of a key turning in the lock of the external door. But nothing happened and he relaxed with a heavy sigh.

  Pictures of Felicity Dubois in a variety of poses crammed one wall of the living room and the leather sofa was strewn with fashion magazines and more revealing photo shots of her. The walnut cocktail cabinet had been left open, a dirty crystal glass and a half-full Vodka bottle occupying the flap, and the big wide-screen television was on standby.

  Benchley frowned, thinking that maybe Dubois didn’t intend being away for as long as the security man had thought, or alternatively had left things the way they were in anticipation of a cleaner calling, which meant he would have to work fast.

  The policeman had no idea what he was looking for, but the model had achieved such a level of prominence in the investigation that much closer scrutiny was certainly called for. To his mind, that justified recourse to the old unofficial “Ways and Means Act”, so often used by CID officers to get a result. But embarking on what was plainly an illegal entry and search, he had no illusions as to what the outcome would be if he were to be discovered and he tried not to think about what incarceration in Wormwood Scrubs prison might be like.

  Consigning that thought to the back of his mind, he sifted through a pile of papers – mostly bills and receipts – dumped on a coffee table, but found nothing of interest. Carefully putting the correspondence back exactly as he had found it, he turned his attention to a small corner bureau, but it was locked. He frowned. Bugger it! In his experience, a locked drawer or bureau in a suspect’s home often held guilty secrets – or at the very least some nice confidential material which could be of value to a police investigation. All he had to do was find the bloody key. That was, providing Dubois didn’t have the only one with her on her key ring.